


Reflexive Possessive

by Sineala



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Community: trope_bingo, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Pre-Slash, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Khan, Jim has a few residual issues. Spock helps him. Naturally, there's a strange Vulcan practice for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflexive Possessive

**Author's Note:**

> For Kink Bingo ("writing on the body") and Trope Bingo ("languages and translation").

Jim is beginning to think that the Starfleet HQ headshrinkers cut him loose a little prematurely. And he knows if it's him thinking it, it must be a problem.

It isn't like there was much else they could do. Starfleet Command wasn't very well not going to give him the _Enterprise_ , not after he'd-- after everything. And he'd passed the physical and the basic psych and everything else. They weren't going to delay the rechristened _Enterprise_ 's maiden voyage just for a few personal issues. He could deal. He is dealing. It is nothing too awful.

Still, sometimes, alone in his quarters, he stares down at his hands, at the glittering captain's braid at his wrists, at the veins running blue just under his skin, and he thinks _this isn't me_.

He knows what Bones will say -- he can practically hear Bones saying it -- which is why he doesn't bother telling him. Depersonalization. Symptom of a hundred different disorders. But how can it be a symptom when it's a result? It isn't him because _it isn't him_. All of his blood was replaced by Khan's. A genetic superman from the Eugenics Wars. Not even human, not really. He died. How human is that?

Red blood cells last, on average, four months. Jim knows this because he looked it up last night, when he couldn't sleep. It's been one month. Three more to go. And that's for ordinary humans. Khan... wasn't. Isn't. Suppose they'll be in him forever? Then what?

* * *

He can't ask Bones. Bones would just pour him a drink, and they'd talk, and sure, he'd feel better for a bit, but that's not going to cure this. That's not going to fix it.

He needs something that he can't think of. He needs a solution that can't occur to him, that would never have occurred to him, because if Jim could think of it, he would have done it.

That's when he knows he has to ask Spock.

He feels strange about it, mostly because he's not really sure how he stands with Spock now. If his life had been anything approaching normal -- well, he wouldn't be a captain at all, but he's willing to stipulate that for the sake of the thought experiment -- he would have served with Spock for a few years, gotten to know him a little, maybe they would have gradually become friends, and then, then, they would have relied on each other in these world-shattering, galaxy-changing times. It would have made sense then that Spock mourned him, that Spock raged, that Spock -- so Uhura said -- had gone to avenge him, that he had nearly beaten Khan to death. That would have at least been a relationship he could understand.

But the destruction of Vulcan, Admiral Pike's death, everything, everything else -- those things have thrown them together, somehow friends, yet practically strangers, with no time to smooth out any of the rough edges between them, with only a desperate blind trust binding them together in a way Jim has given up trying to explain or justify, even to himself. They were meant to be like this.

They don't know each other. They don't. And yet they do these things anyway, just as if they did. And now they have to be normal afterwards. Who even knows what normal is, between them? There is no baseline.

It makes it awkward, is all. It's like having an incredibly passionate one night stand and then having them show up to a normal date to do dinner and a holovid like you've never met before. You'd spend the whole date thinking _but I know what you look like naked_.

Maybe romance is a bad analogy. It's not that he's thinking about Spock like that.

Okay, maybe a little. He's not _blind_.

For once in his life possessed of some good sense, Jim knows he can't actually ask Spock in person. He's not a coward. He just knows it'll come out wrong. He won't be able to explain it right.

So he messages him.

Jim crafts the message with some care, although he is intentionally vague on the details of why he wants it. He asks, politely, if there are Vulcan meditation techniques Spock might recommend for him. He wants to become aware of himself, perhaps, and he has found Terran methods lacking. (This is more or less true as well.) He is open-minded. He does not mean to offend. If Spock does not want to help him, he need not reply. Jim will not bring it up again.

He closes his eyes and presses send.

Spock doesn't reply.

_Well_ , he thinks. _That's that._

He goes to bed and stares at the ceiling for hours. He doesn't sleep.

* * *

In the morning he's in the turbolift to the bridge when Spock steps in next to him. They are alone.

"Jim," Spock says, in an undertone, and the use of his name alone is enough to clue Jim in: this means something. What, he has no idea. "I received your message last night."

He's not going to plead. Spock has clearly made his decision.

"I wished to convey my agreement in person."

Jim stares. "You'll-- what? Yes? Is that a yes?"

Spock tilts his head. It's sort of like a nod. "I am familiar with several practices that would be appropriate for your present situation." 

Jim hasn't actually said what his situation is. But something has to work, right?

"And you'll teach me?" he asks.

Spock nods again, but there is something hesitant about it. "I am willing to instruct you to the best of my ability. I must inform you, however, that these methods are... unusual, in that they are perhaps not what you are prepared for."

Does Spock think he can't take it? Is that it? "Hey," Jim retorts, grinning, "you know me, I can handle anything. Whatever it is."

Spock gives him one of those patented Vulcan skeptical eyebrows, but he nods yet again. "If you are certain. Is 2100 hours acceptable?"

"What, today?" He didn't think Spock would be up for it right away. Hell, he didn't even really think Spock would say yes. "Uh, sure, okay."

"My quarters, then," Spock says, and the lift doors whoosh open to the bridge and they can't talk about it anymore. Which is fine by Jim.

* * *

It's 2100, and he's standing in front of the door to Spock's quarters. He hasn't actually been in, ever. Spock has always been very private. But it was Spock who picked the location, so clearly he must not mind Jim's presence.

"Enter."

The door opens, and Spock's standing there in a dark Vulcan robe, plain and somber, the sort of thing you see in textbooks with words like "traditional dress" as the caption. It seems awfully... formal. Maybe that's part of the whole thing. There's even a fire-pot in the corner of the room.

Jim steps in, and Spock, silent, holds out a hand toward a pair of low couches, halfway between giant cushions and beanbag chairs. It's more comfortable-looking than he was picturing, expecting the usual Vulcan austerity. Jim takes the closer one and tries to fold his legs somewhere out of the way while Spock drops to the opposite couch with a quiet rustling of fabric.

"This concerns Khan. Your death."

Spock's words aren't a question, but they must be; he can't know this for sure. Jim opens his mouth, but a reply doesn't come.

"I understand that this is a difficult subject to discuss." Spock sounds strangely patient. "But you have requested my assistance, and I cannot assist you fully unless I am aware of all pertinent details."

He makes sense. Of course he makes sense. He's Spock.

So Jim clears his throat and goes for it. He explains the whole stupid thing. The blood. The way it feels like he's not himself anymore.

Spock stares at him, unblinking. "I had suspected that this might be the case."

"You can--" Jim licks his lips. "Can you fix it? Can you help me?"

Spock sits back a little and his expression becomes abstracted. "Vulcans have not always been as we are. Before the peace of Surak, there were cases of souls ripped out of bodies, forced back in. The people of the northern polar areas considered rehabilitation in these particular cases to be their gift, though their methods were... unorthodox. I am unsure if it is effective on humans, but the possibility exists."

"You're experimenting on me?"

"Only out of necessity." Spock nods nonetheless. "This is the method I am familiar with. It has other uses, which is how I came to be acquainted with it."

And there are only ten thousand Vulcans in the galaxy. It's not like he's going to find specialists.

"Okay. Let's do this thing." Jim grins.

But Spock holds up his hand. "I require your explicit consent in this matter: I must touch you."

Why would he ask...? Oh. Right. Touch-telepathy.

"I will not meld with you," continues Spock, "nor read any thoughts other than surface thoughts. But you will be able to sense me. In fact, you must. If it is disagreeable at any time, I will cease."

Jim considers it. "All right. I can do that."

Spock nods briskly. "Very well. Remove your shirt."

Jim can only stare at him. "Huh? What?"

Maybe it is a date after all. What the hell?

"You must remove your shirt," Spock repeats, and he stands up to fetch a little jar of... something that Jim can't quite see what it is, from a table by the fire-pot.

Bewildered and feeling like he's failing an unannounced game of Simon Says, Jim hauls his gold uniform shirt over his head and wads it up in his lap. "Like this?"

Spock's stare is implacable. "And the undershirt."

Jim does. Okay, now's he's sitting half-naked in the middle of Spock's quarters, and this is getting weird. If it were a date, it would be the weirdest date he's been on. He probably shouldn't think that too loudly, because Spock's gonna notice. Because Spock's going to touch him. Vulcans don't do touching. Except apparently they do.

Staring at Spock's hands, Jim finally makes sense of it. But he doesn't really make _sense_ of it, because there isn't a sensible reason for Spock to have ink and a brush. He's going to... paint him? Put ink on him?

Well, something half-amused in the back of Jim's head points out, at least he has a brush. Vulcans definitely wouldn't go for finger-painting.

"Hold out your arms. Palms up."

It's not quite an order -- Spock can't pull rank on him anymore anyway, and even if he could Jim knows he wouldn't do it for this -- but Spock's tone has the force of something more than mere suggestion.

So he does.

The first stroke of the brush against the bare skin of his inner arm is shocking, almost like a caress. The ink is dark and heavy, and it doesn't run as Spock draws a line parallel to the bend of his elbow. Jim doesn't mean to, but he shivers a little.

"Hold still," Spock says, almost absently, and his free hand very carefully braces Jim's wrist.

He knows what mindmelds feel like. This isn't one. This is something subtle, but there's definitely something... there, in his head, that isn't just him. There's a feeling of calmness, of familiarity. He's never done this before, but Spock has, and he's reading that.

"Concentrate on the feel of the brush," says Spock. "This is the body that your soul inhabits. See the words that I am writing."

As he watches, Spock finishes one swirly letter, then begins another one just beneath it. Sure, everyone's watched a bit of Sesame Planet growing up, but Jim's memory of le-matya puppets singing the Vulcan alphabet is definitely not reliable enough for this. He didn't know there'd be a test later.

Spock finishes the word at his wrist, and briskly, efficiently moves to the other arm. From the look of it, he's starting to write the same word again.

"You are invited," Spock begins, "to meditate upon the words. It is traditional for participants to select their own words of significance. As you asked for a particularly Vulcan modality, it seemed that a Vulcan word might be preferable, as a focus, to Federation Standard, and so I took the liberty of selecting one for you. If this is not acceptable, you may of course..." The sentence trails off; the punctuation is one raised eyebrow.

"No, no, it's fine. It's good. You guessed right." Jim stares down at the four curving symbols. "Just... what does it say?"

Spock stops, brush poised in midair, and he lifts his head to meet Jim's eyes.

"Life."

Jim's throat is tight. Spock knows. And yet Spock isn't judging him, isn't calling him crazy, isn't doing anything but sitting here holding a brush waiting for him to reply.

"That-- that'll be fine," Jim manages, hoarsely. He could almost cry in relief. In catharsis.

Spock nods and finishes the arm, and then leans in to write along the length of Jim's chest, like he's painting a wall. Jim straightens up and shuts his eyes. Spock is a little... close, disconcertingly so, but it doesn't feel like he's gone away. That's when he realizes Spock's free hand is on his shoulder as he writes.

_Peace_ , the thing in his head that isn't quite substantial enough to be a voice says. _Breathe. You are here. This is yours._

He breathes. When he opens his eyes, the brushstrokes down his chest have stopped, and it looks like it must be a different word this time. The letters start just below his throat and drift over his sternum. It's pretty, somehow. He would never have thought Spock had any artistry in him, but it seems that he does. It's a surprise. A nice one.

"What does this one say?"

Spock shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. "Vulcan reflexive pronominals make certain semantic distinctions that Federation Standard does not encode--"

"Yeah, yeah," Jim says, impatient. "Approximately?"

"It is a reflexive possessive. One's own," says Spock, and he still looks awkward. The imprecision must bother him, because he keeps trying. "Belonging to oneself. Belonging to one's soul."

Spock says _soul_ aloud, definitely, but the word that echoes through Jim's ears is Vulcan. _Katra_. A bunch of associations rush by with the word, things he doesn't understand, long-ago rituals in the dark, and Jim is suddenly dizzy with someone else's memories. He supposes Vulcans have a word for that, too.

"My soul?"

It seems a little odd, that rational, logical Vulcans would believe in something so... spiritual. Something that, by necessity, requires belief. No, that isn't right at all. They're Vulcans. If they think it, they've got a reason. They've got proof.

Spock nods. "The soul is, of course, distinguished from the body. Grammatically, and otherwise." Of course. Jim wants to laugh. Spock pauses, then adds, almost hesitantly, "I had thought that you might derive... comfort... from that fact. That which happened to you was a thing of the body. Your mind was ever yours. It remains now to reclaim your body."

And now Jim understands the word. Spock didn't write _mine_ and he didn't write _yours_. The word came with its own point of view, binding it to itself. To him.

It works for him.

"I get it," he says. "I get it." And then he has a thought. "Hey, while we're here, can we try a thing? A human thing?"

Spock, understandably, looks more than a little dubious.

"I just would like-- a hug," Jim says, finally. It sounds stupid when he says it, but what the hell. "I mean, you're already touching me."

Spock nods, and then holds out his arms and draws Jim in.

It is the worst hug ever, objectively. By any measurement of hugs it is a zero. Maybe it's even a negative hug. Spock sort of cradles him stiffly in his arms, unmoving. Wet ink smears all over Spock's clothes. It's like being hugged by a Hug Robot created by some mad engineer with delusions of making a feeling machine.

But Jim Kirk does not measure things objectively, and therefore it is the best hug. Spock is here and Spock is touching him and it's him and it's them and they're going to be all right. They are.

"Vulcans don't do hugs, do they?" he asks, and for a minute he thinks Spock's going to pull away.

"They do not," says Spock, and then, very slowly, he adds, "but I can learn."

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say that as far as I know, none of the fannish work on creating a Vulcan language has postulated anything grammatically that would reflect knowledge about the world gained by telepathy as the Vulcans practice it. But you better bet that if I got to make that language up you would have a mandatory distinction between self (body) and self (katra) and there would be several different kinds of evidential markers (I think the Vulcans would really like evidentials; having to say how you know something just seems so... logical) and they would include things like "this is known to me because of telepathy." Of course. 
> 
> (So, basically, this is a bit of what I wish the Vulcan language were like, sorry fanon language purists.)
> 
> Also I am not a therapist and don't know if any of this would actually be psychologically helpful to Jim, but Magic Telepathy Works Wonders, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.


End file.
